A blank white page is staring at me

And a pen that awaits my orders

And a heart choosing the ideas

And a mind that combines and filters

The tip of my pen kisses the page

In hopes of a muse that will fuel it

And a renewable but finite fuel

Is found in the cries of a Cuckoo

My pen writes- 'The cry of a Cuckoo'

Mind says- 'The lament of the Cuckoo'

But only the heart knows the language,

The tongue of truth that the Cuckoo sings

Maybe 'tis the cry of agony

O'er the intelligence of the crow

In detecting cuckoo's cryptic egg

That'd mixed in like a bitter sugar

Or just a plain old cry for a mate,

Maybe a sundown song rehearsal

Chance a bug may have clogged her lil neck

Among all reasons for cuckoo cries

But do we settle for simple things

Is not our imagination us?

I scribble off 'Cry of a Cuckoo'

Settling on 'The lament of the Cuckoo'

~Ajay

3/10/17